“You are in a private room in a private hotel,” he said.  “I brought you here.”

“In a hotel!” She stared at him for a moment, stricken silent by the information; then quickly she rose to her feet.  “Oh, but I—­I can’t stay!” she said.  “I have no money.”

“I know,” said Mercer.  He remained seated on the table edge, his hands in his pockets, his eyes unwaveringly upon her.  “That’s where I come in,” he told her, with a touch of aggressiveness, as though he sighted difficulties ahead.  “I have money—­plenty of it.  And you are to make use of it.”

She stood motionless, gazing at him.  His eyes never left her.  She could not quite fathom his look, but it was undoubtedly stern.

“Mr. Mercer,” she said at last, rather piteously, “I—­indeed I am grateful to you, much more than grateful.  But—­I can’t!”

“Rubbish!” said Mercer curtly.  “If you weren’t a girl, I should tell you not to be a fool!”

She was clasping and unclasping her hands.  It was to be a battle of wills.  His rough speech revealed this to her.  And she was ill-equipped for the conflict.  His dominant personality seemed to deprive her of even the desire to fight.  She remembered, with a sudden, burning flush, that she had clung to him only a little while before in her extremity of loneliness.  Doubtless he remembered it too.

Yet she braced herself for the struggle.  He could not, after all, compel her to accept his generosity.

“I am sorry,” she said; “I am very sorry.  But, you know, there is another way in which you can help me.”

“What is that?” said Mercer.

“If you could tell me of some respectable lodging,” she said.  “I have enough for one night if the charges are moderate.  And even after that—­if Robin doesn’t come—­I have one or two little things I might sell.  He is sure to come soon.”

“And if he doesn’t?” said Mercer.

Her fingers gripped each other.

“I am sure he will,” she said.

“And if he doesn’t?” said Mercer again.

His persistence became suddenly intolerable.  She turned on him with something like anger—­the anger of desperation.

“Why will you persist in trying to frighten me?  I know he will come.  I know he will!”

“You don’t know,” said Mercer.  “I am not frightening you.  You were afraid before you ever spoke to me.”

He spoke harshly, without pity, and still his eyes dwelt resolutely upon her.  He seemed to be watching her narrowly.

She did not attempt to deny his last words.  She passed them by.

“I shall write to Bowker Creek.  He may have mistaken the date.”

“He may,” said Mercer, in a tone she did not understand.  “But, in the meantime, why should you turn your back upon the only friend you have at hand?  It seems to me that you are making a fuss over nothing.  You have been brought up to it, I daresay; but it isn’t the fashion here.  We are taught to take things as they come, and make the best of ’em.  That’s what you have got to do.  It’ll come easier after a bit.”